


Loki and the Scars

by Lycianthara



Series: Loki and the Priest [3]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Minor Violence, Nakedness, Remorse, Scars, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, trans loki, trans protagonist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7355950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycianthara/pseuds/Lycianthara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh from the shower, Loki forces his boy to reveal himself, instead of hiding in a towel. In doing so, Loki reveals some emotion and his boy reveals his mistakes. Perhaps another gift, to make his boy feel better?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loki and the Scars

He stood before his god, clutching the oddly soft towel to his body. While he had stood bare as a baby in front of the deity before, out of rage and fury, he now stood self conscious. His own hatred of his body, feminine as it was, showed through. The ever heavenly shower he experienced before was not enough to completely lift his spirits, and his dysphoria pulled him down. Almost as harshly as Loki pulled the towel from his hands. 

“You have no reason to fear your body. It has tried being kind to you. You should be kind to it in turn.” The gods eyes raked across the young man's body, not pausing at his breasts or his wide hips, nor at his lack of bulge and instead the mop of hair between his legs. Instead, his gaze hardened and halted at the stark pink lines across the boy’s stomach. They were a mess, crosshatching in places, curving in others, mottled and lump flesh. The young man’s hands went to cover them, but the god slapped his hands away in anger. “Do not hide from me, boy,” the god spat. His pale and long-fingered hands crept over the mess of skin, so different in color and texture to the rest of his charge. 

If the god had any tears left in his body, he may have shed one. Instead his large hands gripped his boy’s waist, and a dark, menacing tone took over his voice. “How did these happen?” He enunciated each word as though it were a sentence of it’s own. His tongue dripped with venom, displeasure, and fury at who would dare to harm what was his. In his hands, the boy shivered, taking in a shaky breath.

“A window fell on me.”

The god went silent, before strengthening his grip on his charge. He nearly growled as he spoke, “A window? Fell? Now, how in all the realms did that happen? Hm?” He directed his fury at his charge, glaring holes into his abdomen. In his eyes, he saw a child who had been stupid and slow enough to not even attempt to avoid a falling window. A window! 

“It was New York.” 

And as if the gods hands had never lain themselves upon the boy, as if his very skin burned like hot iron, he let go. New York. Two simple words, and instead of fury all he felt was despair. It was not some street thug with a knife, nor a cruel former landlord. It was not an abuser. No. These scars, these jagged and lumpy lines of flesh. They were his fault. His horrid chaos brought a window down on perhaps the only person who cared for him, if at all. 

“How did you survive? Your kidneys, I didn’t think mortals could..” The god trailed off as his long, pale fingers slowly reached up to garce themselves with the feel of the scars. Softer than silk, no heavier than sunlight, he traced the little map of pain, pain he had wrought. 

“Stark funded all the hospitals. I had full matches on all the organs. I still can’t stomach most red meat though, doesn’t sit right.” What the young man didn’t say, is perhaps what his god understood most of all. The delicate, unsaid words, ‘I was lucky.’ Luck. The domain of the very god who nearly took his life, saved it instead.

The god broke, but instead of tears rushing down his face, he buried his head against the map of pain, and wound his arms tight around his boy’s waist. Tears did not, could not fall. 

“Ya could’ve aim six inches higher asshole, would’a solved a lot of my problems.”

The brash humor broke the god’s despair, and he chuckled against the mottled skin of his charge. Soft smirk still on his face, an eyebrow raised, he raised his eyes to his boy’s. “I suppose I owe you a few more gifts then?”

His boy nodded, still drying hair flopping against his forehead, “Heat would be nice, so would food. Clothes too. A nicer apartment maybe. A better job. Ooh! I got it! A flat chest and a closet full of men’s clothes! Yep! That’s it!”

His god playfully scowled and tossed him onto his rickety bed. “I think I’ll start with something easy. Like dinner. Get dressed, I’ll be back in an hour to take you out. Wear something you feel good in, and look good in. I want to turn heads.” The god stood and turned with a flourish, simply phasing through the apartment door instead of opening.

“Fucking prick,” was the young man’s final comment.


End file.
